


my luck is a lost key

by SyntheticRevenge



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Zolf Smith, Bathing/Washing, Beard Braiding, Canon Asexual Character, Complete, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Oscar Wilde Is Fine (Rusty Quill Gaming), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Set in the 18 months between seasons, Shotgunning, Zolf Smith Has Low Charisma, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29334636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge
Summary: Zolf comes in rain-soaked from yet another dead end and, now that he can focus properly without getting drenched, reaches out to his new, nameless god for a jolt of that not-quite-hope that’s been keeping him going.It washes over him, warm and bright, for just a moment, and he finds himself completely dry, which is nice. Spares him having to wring out his beard and rebraid the bits that get mucked up. He wanders the inn looking for Wilde before he remembers Wilde won’t have any interest in seeing him.(Zolf quarantines, Wilde copes, and definitely neither of them has feelings for the other)
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 49
Kudos: 116





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I'm on RQG131, so if there's any canon divergence I sincerely apologize--I just got my entire brain eaten by the quarantine setup and this ship and was absolutely _desperate_ to write something. This'll be seven chapters. Hope you enjoy <3 Title from Waves by Metric, a distinctly Zolf song.

Zolf comes in rain-soaked from yet another dead end and, now that he can focus properly without getting drenched, reaches out to his new, nameless god for a jolt of that not-quite-hope that’s been keeping him going. 

It washes over him, warm and bright, for just a moment, and he finds himself completely dry, which is nice. Spares him having to wring out his beard and rebraid the bits that get mucked up. He wanders the inn looking for Wilde before he remembers Wilde won’t have any interest in seeing him. 

He sighs, and calls out. “Alright, Wilde! Going into the cage now. No need to, y’know, drug me and drop me in. I’ll lock myself in, don’t worry yourself about it, yeah?”

There’s no response, so Zolf grabs his basic wooden prosthetics and heads down to quarantine himself. Slams the mechanism to lock the cell and unceremoniously hurls himself in, legs dead metal the second he crosses the threshold. He and Wilde quarantined plenty of times before, he knows the drill, this is just the first time since...well. Yeah.

He pulls his legs off, face twisting with effort, and attaches the wooden ones. He raps his knuckles against the right one. The dull  _ thunk _ is oddly satisfying, and he keeps drumming, idly. Not like he’s got a whole lot else to do at present. He doesn’t like to be cut off from his new god. Not really a dependence, just...nice to have something external keeping him going. He’s gotten better at motivating himself to live since Prague, sure, but it’s still tough going, especially in times like these.

He curses himself for forgetting a lantern and books, but he’s hoping Wilde’ll be able to bring him those, at least. For now, all he can do is wait. He closes his eyes and breathes deep and thinks about--well, he tells himself he’s going to think about, y’know, nice things. Calm forests and rivers and mountains and such, the kinds of things he thinks people are supposed to think about when they’re avoiding thinking about other things, but his mind ain’t all that cooperative anymore.

(The Wilde that lives in his brain informs him that  _ anymore _ implies that it ever was cooperative. Zolf thinks maybe it used to be, but that was a long, long time ago.)

He drifts towards overthinking every muscle twitch and brief chill, wondering--this it? This how being infected starts out? He really hates quarantine, but he’s pragmatic and he gets it and he’ll never offer a word of complaint.

Honestly, it sort of always reminds him of Mr. Ceiling. The long hours legless under L’Arc D’Ordinateur, hopeless and helpless and waiting on the mercy of things much bigger than him. Not a feeling he likes to remember if he can help it. Spent a lot of money and wasted a lot of nights trying to scrub it out of his mind however he could, actually, but that got him nowhere, cuz the feeling’s still always just there, waiting to pop back up.

He’s never done this alone before, though. Every time til now he’s had Wilde there, just as terrified as him but always ready to try and defuse the situation with a horrendous pun or a worse innuendo. Zolf thinks Wilde might be  _ kind _ , actually, but he really tries his best not to be most of the time.

The darkness and silence start to press the air out of Zolf’s lungs. He itches for a strong drink and a long breath of that warm almost-hope from his god’s lips into his own. Or maybe he’s just itching, which could be a bad sign. 

He pulls the braid out of his beard and slowly, meticulously, redoes it, staring through the bars and the far wall, trying not to let that panic about being underground come clawing up. As he finishes and gently slides the ring back over it, Wilde appears, staring at a spot above Zolf’s head.

“Hey,” Zolf says, smiling, generally glad to see another person. It’s not because it’s Wilde. Could be anyone. “I forgot to bring light and a book, could you maybe--”

“Strip off,” Wilde says, flatly, and Zolf sighs.

“Not even gonna put some enthusiasm into it?” he asks, attempting to joke, but the lack of life in Wilde’s tone sucks any emotion out of his.

“What would you prefer? Please, Zolf,  _ please _ take your clothes off so I can see if you’re still you?” Wilde shrugs, still not looking Zolf in the eye. “Just do it.”

“Tell me you’ll bring me a light and my books,” Zolf says, a bit needlessly stubborn. “And maybe a bottle of something, if you’re going to be like this all week.”

“Take your fucking clothes off, Zolf.”

“That’s more like it.” Zolf can’t help but smirk. Wilde growls in his throat, and Zolf finally caves, pulling his shirt off over his head and neatly laying it on the cot he’s sitting on, undoing his trousers and pulling them down. He stands, spreads his arms, and does his best to turn around, but with the wooden legs and the trousers around his not-ankles, it proves a bit difficult, and he trips, falling back into the cot. He can’t help but laugh humorlessly at himself. 

Wilde doesn’t seem the least bit amused. “You’re clear,” he says, turning to go. “Would you like When Passions Collide, or--what was the Bertie one called--”

“Yeah, that’ll do,” Zolf says. “When Passions Collide, I mean. Don’t really need to be thinking about Bertie at all right now.”

“Hmm,” Wilde says, which isn’t a very helpful line of conversation.

“You still think about him on purpose?” Zolf asks, a hint of amusement in his tone, even though thinking about Wilde touching Bertie like that still makes him feel a bit ill, for reasons he’s not all that interested in analyzing.

“I think about all of them,” Wilde says, softly, then leaves the room.

Zolf puts his clothes back on and tries not to imagine Wilde, guilt-wracked and alone, waiting for a crew that was never coming back. He always seemed like he’d be above all that. Zolf prefers to think of him as above all that, actually. Easier, somehow.

After an aimless, dark span of time, Wilde brings him When Passions Collide, the sequel, and another book Zolf’s never seen before--something about a guy called Dorian?--as well as a lantern, miso soup, and rice.

“Ain’t much substance to that,” Zolf says, flicking his chin in the direction of the food. 

“I eat it all the time,” Wilde says, dismissing the comment with a shrug and a wave of his hand.

“Yeah, and you’re so thin a strong breeze could snap your bones,” Zolf says. 

“Fine. I’ll get you more food.” Wilde rolls his eyes. 

“I also asked for--”

“I know,” Wilde says, sighing and brandishing a bottle of sake he was keeping behind his back. “You’re very demanding today.”

“Well, y’know, gonna be a long week,” Zolf says, gratefully taking the bottle from Wilde, who takes special care to make sure their fingers don’t brush.

“I know,” Wilde says, softly. In the dim light from the lantern, his scar looks horrid, like he’s some kind of undead  _ thing _ . Zolf knows he must miss his magic like a limb. He doesn’t have anything to hide behind anymore. Zolf’s seen him catch his own reflection. He never flinches away, but his back straightens like he’s rising to something, and that’s enough of an admission of pain.

“I, uh,” Zolf says, because he feels like he should say  _ something _ , but nothing jumps to mind. “Sorry. About...yeah. Sorry. I should’ve been here.”

“Why?” Wilde asks, suddenly taut and poised again.

“For...for you. Shouldn’t have just left soon as you were cleared.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, you had a job to do.”

“Yeah, and it was a dead end, so I wish I’d been here with you,” Zolf says, shrugging. 

“I don’t  _ need  _ you, Zolf. I can manage myself perfectly well.”

“Fine,” Zolf says. He shakes his head, looks away from Wilde, whose face is completely set and unmoving. “Be like that, then.”

“Like  _ what _ .”

“You know, you’re allowed to  _ want _ things. You don’t have to  _ need _ them,” Zolf says. 

“You want me to tell you I wanted you there to, what, Zolf? Hold me and comfort me?” Wilde asks, scoffing. “I got by perfectly well before you. I don’t need you by my side all the time.”

“ _ Fine _ .”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I don’t get more food?” Zolf asks, raising his eyebrows and crossing his arms.

“No,” Wilde says, and almost smirks, but the scar distorts it. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Go hungry, I guess.” Zolf sighs and reaches for the soup. “Bye, then.”


	2. Day Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are all so nice, thank you <3 I'm having way too much fun writing these two, I hope I continue to do a good job.
> 
> CW: claustrophobia, alcohol

Zolf saves the bottle of sake for another day. He knows Wilde won’t bring him more, and he won’t  _ really _ need it for a bit yet.

On the second day, he wakes up from a shallow dream of suffocating darkness and digging himself out of warm, bracing dirt, and forgets where he is for a brief moment. He doesn’t like waking up in the dark. Ain’t right. Mornings are for soft light and that weird little gutwrenching twist of hope that the day’ll work out fine for once.

He feels more or less blindly for the lantern and somehow manages to get it lit. If he lets himself linger on the dream, he’ll start thinking about how he dug himself out and Feryn didn’t, and that really isn’t gonna be a productive use of his time. 

He picks up When Passions Collide and flicks through it sort of listlessly before putting it down and rubbing his face. He didn’t think being alone in here would get to him so quick. When other people are around he can pretend to be alright so hard he almost believes it--most of the time, at least. 

The way he fell apart after Paris, well. Needless to say, that was a long time coming and the shame still boils his guts a bit. He knows Sasha and Hamid looked up to him, for whatever misguided reason, and he let them down by leaving. Maybe if he’d just been a bit stronger, if he’d held on tighter to his mind and his hope and his piece-of-shit god, they’d still be--nah. No sense in that.

He picks the book back up and tries to read it, the words falling out of his brain even despite how well he knows them by now. He can’t stop thinking about his dead friends all of a sudden. Remembers Hamid spending a night pressed against his door in Paris, waiting for him to be the adult and fucking leader he was meant to be, wanting to  _ help  _ him. What did Zolf ever do for him except leave?

Even if he knows he made the right choice, it’s hard not to linger on it. He still goes through the motions of reading, trying to take the appropriate length of time to scan each page, turning it like it has weight and he’s paying attention. He’s not sure who the show’s for. Probably just himself.

Wilde brings him bacon when he’s about a quarter of the way through the book, and Zolf can’t help but smile at the smell and the external stimulus. 

“Morning,” Zolf says, as cheerily as he can muster under the circumstances.

“You don’t look well,” Wilde says, a hint of reserved concern in his tone as he steps back from the bars and regards Zolf as he starts eating.

“Didn’t sleep well.” Zolf shrugs. “Nothin’ to worry yourself about.”

“I hope that’s all it is.” Wilde’s voice is tight. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Wouldn’t mind company,” Zolf says. “I’m not having a great time of it, if I’m honest, and having someone here’d help. You do your work, I don’t care, just...stay with me, please.”

“I don’t know, Zolf, I’m very--”

“I  _ know _ you’re busy, but you haven’t left the inn in weeks, so I also know you ain’t workin’ on anything you can’t do down here.”

Wilde sighs. “Fine.” He disappears and returns several minutes later with a few lanterns and a massive stack of papers, and sits about a foot away from the bars, starting to read. 

Zolf means to go back to pretending to read, himself, but he ends up watching Wilde instead. The small furrows in his forehead as he concentrates, the way his lips part sometimes, mouthing single words. Reading, even dry research, always looks sacred on Wilde, like he’s got reverence for just the act of it. 

Far cry from Zolf and the way he tears through books looking for something to make him feel...well, hey,  _ feel _ . He likes to react. 

Eventually, Wilde looks up, like he’s surfacing from a dream, and glances at Zolf, clearly surprised to find Zolf looking back at him. “Yes?” he asks, sounding faintly annoyed but in a breathy and fond sort of way.

“No, nothin’, sorry,” Zolf says, shaking his head and brandishing his book. “Lost in thought, I guess.”

“Yes, Harrison Campbell novels are  _ certainly _ known for their overwhelmingly thought-provoking nature,” Wilde deadpans, clicking his tongue and going back to his reading. 

“Thought-provoking ain’t necessarily the word I’d use,” Zolf says. 

“Blood-coaxing?” Wilde asks, smirking down at the paper under his hand. “Bodice-tightening?”

“Nothin’ wrong with a little bit of emotional excitement every once in a while,” Zolf says. “I dunno. Don’t think I’ve ever been in love, so it’s sort of fun to read about.”

“You haven’t?” Wilde asks, looking up at him with oddly soft eyes. 

“Far as I know,” Zolf says, shrugging. He thinks he’s right. What he feels about Wilde’s different than his other friends, but, well, of course it is. Wilde’s an incredibly different sort of person. 

“Seems like a difficult existence,” Wilde says, going cold again. “My condolences.”

“Works out alright for me.”

“Hmm.” Wilde returns to ignoring him completely in favor of his work, and Zolf tries to rally and actually  _ read _ his book, rather than listlessly turning pages.

Hours pass in silence, not particularly companionable or hostile, until Wilde glances at his watch and then sighs, leaning back, stretching, and pushing to his feet. 

“It time?” Zolf asks, yawning and laying the book open next to him.

“Indeed,” Wilde says, nodding once. “Show.”

Zolf strips and Wilde appraises, head cocked, gesturing for Zolf to turn. He remains silent for a beat longer than Zolf expects, which makes fear fill Zolf’s chest. “Wilde?”

“You’re alright,” Wilde says, voice husky for a moment. He clears his throat. “I thought I saw something. Trick of the light. Apologies for the suspense.”

Zolf turns to face him again, sighing with exasperation. Wilde immediately directs his focus to above Zolf’s head, flushing like he didn’t just get exposed to this view a moment ago. “My body bother you?” Zolf asks, flatly. 

“Not in the slightest,” Wilde says. “Would you prefer I look?” He smirks, face twisting oddly and unfamiliarly despite the practiced ease of the expression.

“Better than you averting your gaze like I’m disgustin' you somehow, yeah,” Zolf says, shrugging, not sure why he’s doing this other than stress and boredom and wanting  _ something _ to happen to keep his mind off the lingering fear of infection he tries not to let himself dwell on.

“Alright, then,” Wilde says, slowly dragging his eyes down Zolf’s body, still smirking. “Satisfied?”

“Deeply,” Zolf deadpans. “Do I get lunch, or are you planning on starving me to death before the infection has a chance to take hold?”

“Hmm.” Wilde brushes his thumb over his scar in mock consideration. “Now that I think about it, the latter could spare both of us a lot of pain.” If Wilde meant that as a joke, it clearly doesn’t land for either of them. Zolf goes quiet, and Wilde clears his throat again, back to his cold, detached facade. “I’ll bring you food. Hang on.”

Zolf sighs as Wilde leaves, putting his clothes back on and sitting down hard. He never quite gets where he stands with Wilde. He knows there’s mutual respect. He knows what Wilde means to him--what Wilde _ did _ for him--but he never really knows how Wilde feels about him. The flirting and bouts of odd sincerity always catch Zolf off guard, but then he reminds himself of Bertie. Love and sex and all that--it’s just a game for Wilde, Zolf figures, and he doesn’t get that in the least, so he should just let Wilde be Wilde and not try and get caught up in it.

Wilde brings him food, then collects his papers and lanterns and leaves. His absence is a void, and Zolf tries to think around it so he can stay sane. He goes back to reading, and loudly reacts to all the plot beats he’s been over several times before just for something to fill the silence.

He gets into the sake before Wilde brings dinner. Can’t help it. Just can’t sit with the dim silence anymore. Makes him feel warm again, at least, skin deadened enough that he can’t overanalyze every sensation.

Wilde doesn’t say a word when he brings dinner and finds Zolf most of the way through the bottle, shirt hanging open, squinting futilely at When Passions Collide. Zolf doesn’t either, since that’s how they seem to be playing it.


	3. Day Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, who knows what this one is.
> 
> CW: drug use

On the third day, Zolf manages a dreamless sleep til what his watch tells him is noon. Food’s been left for him, and he listlessly picks at it, regretting missing Wilde’s visit--and drinking as well. He never used to get hungover, but, well, he ain’t what he used to be.

He finishes, neatly stacks his leftover plates and utensils, meticulously as he can because it fills time and that’s something worth doing, even if it’s just an extra few moments.

He reaches for When Passions Collide, but gets bored immediately with the overfamiliar words, and decides to try the book he didn’t recognize.  _ The Picture of Dorian Gray _ . The book looks magically bound, the title in careful, elegant cursive. There’s no author’s name, just the start of the book.

At least it’s something new. Zolf starts reading and gets sucked into the book enough that he doesn’t notice when Wilde comes in, at least not until Zolf blurts out an involuntary “Dorian,  _ no _ , he  _ loves _ you--” and hears a soft laugh from outside the cell.

“Enjoying it?” Wilde asks when Zolf’s head snaps up. 

“Yeah, not bad,” Zolf says. “Bit pretentious.”

Wilde almost smiles at that, one of his occasional old, genuine smiles, but it dies quickly. “You’re not wrong. Pretty fucking good, though, I’d say.”

“You wrote it, didn’t you,” Zolf says.

“Ah, Zolf the investigator returns.”

“You’re good,” Zolf says. “Why’d Dorian kill Basil? Basil just wanted to help him. Probably wanted to take care of him and help him fix things. Things can always get better if people just--just  _ talk _ .”

He realizes he’s projecting about halfway through that, but it’s too late to course correct.

“He killed Basil because intimacy is men like Dorian’s worst enemy,” Wilde says. “Basil  _ saw _ him. All of him. That was unforgivable.”

“ _ Why _ ?” Zolf asks.

Wilde sighs. “I don’t know, it’s just a fucking book.”

“Why don’t you write more?” 

“Oh, what, with all of my extensive free time?” Wilde snaps back. “If I could, I would, Zolf, believe me.”

“I’m sorry,” Zolf says, genuinely surprised that he pushed Wilde that far.

“Take your clothes off,” Wilde says, looking away from Zolf. Zolf sighs and strips.

“You know, I think we need to make you time to write again,” Zolf says. “I bet we could work it out. If there’s somethin’ I can do, I will.”

“Zolf--”

“No, I’m serious. I like your writing so far, I’d like to get to read more.”

“Well, I’m no Harrison Campbell,” Wilde says, with a twist of a smirk.

“Nah,” Zolf says. “You’re better.”

Wilde almost flushes, but rallies quickly. “Are you ready for me to--”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Zolf says. Wilde looks at him, and Zolf meets his eyes for a brief moment. Something that Zolf doesn’t have a name for seems to pass between them, and then Wilde quickly blinks and scans Zolf’s chest.

“Turn,” Wilde says, curtly.

Zolf turns. “I don’t know, maybe the end’ll be terrible.”

“Oh, you’ll probably hate it.”

“Wouldn’t put it past you,” Zolf says.

“You’re clear,” Wilde says, and Zolf pulls his trousers back up. “I, um. Well, I thought--quarantine is difficult, I know, and I wanted to...apologize, I suppose, for my behavior. I’m...infected or not, you’re still my friend, and I should treat you as such to the best of my ability until you’re proven not to be.”

“You’re fine,” Zolf says. 

Wilde pulls a blown-glass pipe out of his pocket. “What I mean to say is, I brought you something that should make being trapped in a cage temporarily more accommodating.”

“I’m listening.”

“Here.” Wilde pulls a small container out of a different pocket and opens it, filling the pipe with...something.

“That better not be opium, I ain’t interested in--” Zolf starts, but Wilde cuts him off with a soft laugh.

“It isn’t,” he says. “No need to worry.”

“I just--”

“Zolf,” Wilde says, uncharacteristically commandingly, and Zolf falls silent. “Do you trust me?”

“With my life,” Zolf says, without hesitation, and Wilde looks briefly caught off guard, but blinks it off.

“Then trust me on this.” Wilde puts the pipe between his lips and lights it, and as the match flickers on, Zolf is struck with how beautiful he is, how odd and delicate and yet unrepentant--well, anyway. Wilde takes a short drag, then tries to hand it to Zolf.

“I ain’t putting my lips to the same thing as you,” Zolf says, shaking his head. “We have no idea how this spreads, you won’t even touch me. No.”

“You make a good point,” Wilde says. “Well, there’s a solution. We just have to be careful.” Wilde gives him a sort of wicked smile Zolf doesn’t think he’s ever seen before and steps closer to the bars, beckoning Zolf to do the same. He lights the pipe, takes a long, blissful-looking inhale--Zolf watches the corners of his lips turn up, unguarded and uncaring and utterly lovely--and then leans towards the bars, lips parting centimeters away from Zolf, who’s too stunned to do much of anything but get a faceful of acrid smoke.

“Wilde, I, um,” Zolf starts.

“You’re supposed to inhale, Zolf,” Wilde says, and his tone's so light it's almost teasing, and Zolf didn't realize how much he missed that until it pulls his guts. “Here, should we try again?”

“Sure, but--”

Wilde takes a pull and leans towards Zolf again, bowed over, hair falling slightly in his face. Zolf comforts himself with the thought that Wilde’d probably do something like this with Barnes or Carter, and it’s just, well, Wilde. Debonair, and whatever else he’d describe himself as after several drinks.

Wilde breathes out. Zolf leans so close their lips nearly brush and inhales. It fills his lungs and briefly warms him from the inside out. He exhales, and neither of them moves for a long moment. 

Wilde clears his throat and straightens up. “Well. Um. Why don’t I--I think I have another pipe somewhere buried, or--or we could use yours, and--”

“Oscar,” Zolf says, to cut him off.

“What? It’s easier to--”

“I want you to do that again.” He doesn’t know it’s true until he says it. 

“If you’re infected--”

“Then I’d really like to enjoy the last few nights I’ve got as me, I think,” Zolf says. 

“I suppose that makes sense,” Wilde says, though he looks a bit like he just got stabbed. His voice drops to almost a whisper. “I really hope you’re you.”

“You an’ me both.”


	4. Day Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love writing them but things just fall out of my brain real tangled; Hope it's still enjoyable <3

Zolf twitches groggily out of a dead sleep with his face pressed against the bars. Wilde’s gone. He’d fallen asleep first last night, back to the bars, a slow, eyelid-fluttering sort of slide into unconsciousness, complete with a soft, genuine smile, and Zolf had stared for a moment before realizing that was sort of creepy, actually, and pointedly looking away.

Zolf’s not surprised he left. Whatever the fuck happened last night was...uncharacteristic. They’d gotten way too high and talked and came dangerously close to touching. It’s easy in the 8am darkness to write it off as what it probably was--Wilde’s been strung tight and on the edge of snapping, and he’d just needed to let go and breathe for a night, and if Zolf could help, well, fine. Better that than Wilde getting to the point he was at when he found Zolf in Cairo, miserable and run ragged, hair awkward and uneven, looking a complete mess.

Still, even despite all that, Zolf remembers the jolt of--not joy, not quite hope, maybe reassurance?--that had exploded through him seeing Wilde’s face. Familiarity and comfort. Something he knew how to deal with, after a very short eternity of new terrors. He found Wilde, and then he found his new god, and he can’t ever quite keep the two apart in his head.

Wilde had said about two words to him before he on instinct reached for his element, trying to create water over Wilde’s head for tradition’s sake, but the void where Poseidon used to be gaped, and Zolf had just ended up wincing breathlessly. Wilde had paused whatever opening spiel Zolf wasn’t bothering to listen to and asked, simply, if he was alright. All Zolf could do in response was laugh, a winded, pained sound, and Wilde had nodded silently and squeezed his hand, once, briefly.

_ Your friends are gone _ , Wilde had said.  _ They disappeared in Rome.  _ His voice broke on  _ I’m sorry _ .

Zolf asked what Wilde wanted with him, and they’d gone from there. It’d been a long night, spiritually and emotionally and physically exhausting, but at the end of it, Zolf felt a light he hadn’t in a long time, if ever, and that light stayed there in his chest until it finally expanded into something more powerful and stronger and larger than him.

He knows whatever he believes in now is inside him, even with magic cut off. Goes deeper than magic. Poseidon never did for him, not really, He was a source of power, not a belief, not to Zolf. Hard to believe in anything that didn’t come from within after Mr. Ceiling. Not that he can trust himself, necessarily, but he’s getting there. He’s building that back up. Come a long way since that meeting in Cairo.

He tries to snap himself out of the weird contemplative daze he’s stuck in. Drugs don’t agree with him, particularly, and he’s just gotta fight til they’re all the way out of his system. Was a nice night, though, even if it feels strange in retrospect to have been so close to Wilde, to look at him the way he did--well, strange things happen when you let your guard down around Oscar Wilde.

Wilde surfaces with breakfast and, a moment later, a small basin of water that Zolf gratefully dunks as much of his head as he can fit into.

“You alright?” Wilde asks, a bit hoarsely.

“Yeah,” Zolf says, sort of subconsciously unwilling to look at him. “Just a bit out of sorts.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Wilde says, with a dry and humorless smile. “Shouldn’t have dragged you into my desperate flail at normality.”

“Glad you did,” Zolf says, even though something in his heart sinks at the confirmation of his suspicions that that’s all it was. “Did it help?”

“Yes.” Wilde’s smile turns genuine, if only for a moment. “Thank you for indulging me, Zolf.”

“Not a whole lot else to be done,” Zolf says, shrugging. 

“I suppose not.” Wilde sighs. “You could finish my book?”

“You just want me to finish it so I can tell you how talented and special you are,” Zolf says, and Wilde laughs, an inelegant bark of laughter that seems to startle him. He puts a hand over his mouth to stifle it for a moment, then drops it.

“I do  _ love _ to hear that sort of praise from you, Zolf, it sounds so very authoritative,” Wilde says, smirking, briefly every inch his old self. “If you’d like, you can tell me I’m a horrid failure whose writing will only ever amount him to less than nothing, I’ve gotten that one a lot, but something tells me it would sound different on your tongue.”

“You think about my tongue a lot?”

“Oh, you’ve no idea.”

“Care to elaborate?” It’s not like there’s anything Wilde could say that would excite Zolf, particularly, but it’s not really that kind of game. He just wants to keep Wilde in the mood he’s in, as close to normal as he’s been in a long time. 

“I think some things are best left to the imagination,” Wilde says. “And trust me, mine is  _ extensive _ .”

“Well, you  _ are _ talented and special, so.”

Wilde laughs again, less startled this time, more owning it. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Zolf Smith.”

“I know you well enough to know that ain’t true,” Zolf says, shaking his head. “Flattery will get me  _ everywhere _ with you.”

“And that’s something you want to test?” Wilde crosses his arms and cocks his head.

“Let’s see how insufferable you get before I’m out of here.”

“I’m an abject delight,” Wilde says. “Deeply sufferable. Is there anything else you need this morning?”

“Nothing,” Zolf says, with a shrug.

“Anything else you  _ want _ , then?” Wilde’s smirk lingers, though it’s starting to fade.

“You to stay like this,” Zolf says. “I missed you.”

“I thought you didn’t like when I was like this all the time.”

“Yeah, well,  _ you _ did,” Zolf says, shrugging again. “And I might’ve been too harsh on you.”

“I’ll do my best,” Wilde says, softly. “Not as easy as it used to be.” He meets Zolf’s eyes for a moment, then looks away, clearing his throat and turning to leave. 

Zolf goes back to Dorian Gray, and gets wrapped up in it until the end. He saw it coming, but it still hits him strange anyway, the image of the pristine portrait and the horrible twisted mess of a body below it.

He lingers in the end for long enough that Wilde entering the room startles him. He flings the book hard enough it hits the ceiling. Wilde watches, raising an eyebrow.

“So that’s what you think of my work, then?” Wilde asks, dryly.

“I mean this in the kindest way possible, but Oscar, are you  _ okay _ ?” Zolf asks.

“It’s a story, Zolf, a basic moralistic bullshit fable.” Wilde waves a hand dismissively. “Yes. I’m fine.”

Zolf tries to word the thought he had reading it, of--of Wilde’s facade, the elegance and easy flirting and quick wit being--being Dorian, and now...now he’s destroyed the portrait and he’s done pretending. But he can’t, and Wilde would accuse him of reading too far into things.

“It was good,” is all he can manage.

Wilde scoffs quietly. “Undress, please.” Zolf does, diligently, and faces Wilde, who scans his body quickly. “Turn.”

Zolf turns, and a sound comes out of Wilde, soft and dying. “What was that?” Zolf asks, a pit of fear opening in his gut.

“Step closer to the bars, if you would,” Wilde says, monotonically, all emotion bitten down.

“Oscar--”

“I said come closer, Zolf,” he snaps, and Zolf complies, nearly pressed up to the bars, so close he feels Wilde’s hair brush his shoulder as he leans in to inspect him closer. There’s a long, tense moment of silence, and then a long exhale. “Clear. The light was playing tricks again. Apologies.”

“Are you sure?” Zolf asks, the words catching in his throat, heart pounding. 

“No,” Wilde says, flatly. “But for the time being I’m going to convince myself I am. I have about 85% confidence, which has always been more than enough for me.”

“I hope it’s enough for me.”

“If you need something to help you sleep, let me know when I bring you dinner,” Wilde says. “I know I wouldn’t be able to.”

“Oscar, if--”

“No sense in ifs, Zolf. I’ll see you later.”


	5. Day Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this one's a lot. Emotional revelations and beard braiding!

Zolf didn’t take Wilde up on his offer of something to help him sleep. Doesn’t want him to know how badly he rattled Zolf. Consequently, he hasn’t had more than an hour maximum of sleep, and it’s not like he was sleeping well even before that, so he’s stuck thoroughly in a thick brainfog, the kind you get from grief or trauma. 

It was a long night. Every single sensation in his body got catalogued and overanalyzed and neatly stacked onto the growing dread in the pit of his stomach. He always sort of thought that if he got infected he’d  _ know _ , like his mind would systematically start locking him out or somethin’ and he’d just be stuck in there forever, like all the brains in Mr. Ceiling. There, but gone. 

He kept testing, though, just to make sure he still had control over everything. Flexed his fingers, clenched fists, flicked his face, undid and rebraided his beard shoddily in complete darkness. Winced through the phantom pain in his legs. He’s still him when morning comes, near as he can tell. Two days to go.

Wilde wordlessly brings him breakfast, earlier than normal, looking like he slept about as well as Zolf did. 

“If you’re not gonna sleep anyway, you might as well take the cuffs off,” Zolf says, partially out of concern, partially because he’s thoroughly exhausted and doesn’t mind being a bit of a dick. 

“Don’t think I’m not tempted,” Wilde says, voice soft and hoarse, tone cold again. Detaching himself. Zolf hates the unpredictable back and forth they’ve been through since...well, since the scar, since Wilde’s solo quarantine, just...since. He can work with it, though. It’s a rhythm, a pattern to adjust to. Like the tides. 

Zolf reaches for the food, and Wilde makes a soft sound. “What?” Zolf asks, jolting back, reaching up to his face to see if--if his veins are betraying him, if--

“Your beard,” Wilde says. “What did you do? It looks awful.”

“Oh,” Zolf says. “Uh, nothin’. Must’ve worked the braids out in my sleep.”

“We both know you didn’t sleep.”

“Well. I’ll fix it,” Zolf says, shrugging and reaching again for food.

“You can’t,” Wilde says. “You’re shaking.”

“Fine, then I won’t.” Zolf takes a bite of bread and looks away, ignoring Wilde’s eyes on him. “Not like it really matters when I’m stuck in here anyway.”

“Of course it matters,” Wilde says, sounding genuinely annoyed. “If you don’t have your dignity, what else is left?”

“You think I don’t have my dignity because my beard’s a bit shoddy?”

“No.” Wilde shrugs, like that’s obvious, and Zolf flashes on how lost and shattered he’d looked without his long hair and without magic to cover it up. Like Hamid, too. Carry yourself well enough and no one can see how bad it is. “It’s important to you and you’ve given up on it. No dignity in that.”

“Guess I’ll have to live with that, then,” Zolf says, because Wilde’s right, he doesn’t have it in him to fix it properly, and he doesn’t mind Wilde seeing him undone like this. Only fair, really. He trusts Wilde to know what he’s like at his lowest--he already  _ does _ know, actually, if Zolf’s honest. Things were dark for a long time.

“Unacceptable,” Wilde says, tightly. “Come here.”

“What,  _ you’re _ gonna do it?” Zolf asks, scoffing a bit. “You can’t touch me, Oscar. Especially not now that--”

“You’re fine,” Wilde says, voice tightening even further, about to snap. “And I’m not going to touch your skin, just your hair, which  _ should  _ be f--”

“‘Should be’ isn’t good enough, Oscar, if I have to--if I have to die, or...or whatever you’ll do to me--it can’t happen to you too,” Zolf says, and Wilde exhales in frustration.

“You’re  _ fine _ .”

“How do you know that, you--”

“Because you have to be. Let me fix your beard.”

“You can’t do it through the bars.” Zolf’s voice is flat. He takes another bite and doesn’t look at Wilde.

“You’d be surprised, I’m good with my fingers,” Wilde says. “Please, Zolf. Just let me try. If I’m doing a horrible job or if you tell me to I’ll stop.”

“Why does this  _ mean _ so much to you.”

“I’d like to help you the way you’ve helped me.”

“You already have,” Zolf says. “You can’t see that?”

“I see you alone and terrified in a cage--”

“I’m not terrified,” Zolf mutters.

“--and myself unable to do anything meaningful to improve the situation. This isn’t much, but it’s something I can do. Let me.”

“Oscar, you saved me.”

Wilde’s lips part, slightly, stunned into silence for a brief moment. “I did no such thing,” is his rallying cry, haughty and dismissive. 

“Why don’t you want to believe--”

“I don’t save  _ anyone _ , Zolf, I’ve never managed it  _ once _ , so I guarantee I didn’t save you,” Wilde says. “You’re resilient. Maybe you saved yourself. Or your god saved you. Don’t give me undue credit.”

“What happened to Sasha and Hamid and the others isn’t your fault,” Zolf near-shouts, because he can’t let Wilde live in his twisted reversed delusion of grandeur where everything in the world rests on those thin, graceful shoulders. “No one could’ve stopped ‘em."

“It was my duty to  _ try _ , but I just--sent Grizzop off to Rome after he--after he saved my  _ life _ , and they’re all dead now because I was too weak and wrapped up in my own--” 

“You can’t keep tearing yourself apart over the past.” Zolf’s voice comes out worn thin and scraping. “Trust me. It’s no way to live. The dead are dead. You can mourn them, you can miss them, but you can’t keep sticking your thumb in the wound or it’ll get infected and you’ll never manage to properly live ever again.”

“I’m  _ sorry _ ,” Wilde breathes, and there are tears shining in his eyes.

“‘course you are,” Zolf says. “I am too. Bein’ sorry won’t bring them back.”

“They were good people, and young, and…” Wilde trails off and shakes his head with a ragged, uneven sigh. “And gone. You’re right. You usually are.”

“Then I must be right about you saving me.”

“I don’t understand how,” Wilde says, staring at the ground and shaking his head.

“I’d be dead if you hadn’t looked for me in Cairo,” Zolf says. Mutters. Hard for him to just come out and say it. “You must’ve seen that.”

“You’d be fine.”

“I’d’ve drank myself to death or drowned somewhere or…” Zolf trails off, shakes his head. “Dunno. It was dark. I was lost. You found me.”

“ _ That’s _ not clichéd at all.” Wilde nearly smirks. It twitches at the corner of his lips.

“Well, sorry. I guess I don’t read enough high-quality literature.” Zolf’s voice comes out flat. Wilde’s teasing feels like a rejection of sorts, even though Zolf’s aware he wasn’t asking for anything.

“We can fix that,” Wilde says, then takes a deep breath. “But...thank you, Zolf. That helps.”

“Yeah. You’re...welcome? I guess?”

“Now please let me fix your beard, I can’t stand to look at it any longer.”

Zolf sighs and pushes up, standing close to the bars. Wilde kneels and reaches through, pulling out the tangled, inelegant braids and slowly but deftly working on his own. He’s better than Zolf expected. There’s an elaborate elegance to his work that Zolf never could’ve managed, especially not in the state he’s in. 

He finishes and slides the ring over it, pulling to make sure it’s secure, and tilting his chin up to meet Zolf’s eyes with a faint smile.

“Not bad,” Zolf says.

“I’d say ‘excellent’, actually.”

“You say a lot of things.”

Wilde breathes a laugh. Their noses nearly brush, and silence falls as they hold each other’s gaze. Wilde’s brow furrows slightly, and he coughs, standing up. “Well. Work to be done. I’ll check on you and your veins in a few hours.”

“Right,” Zolf says, managing to hold his sigh in until Wilde leaves the room, running his fingers over the smooth, elegant braid.


	6. Day Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love these absolute fools so much...

Zolf manages a decent, deep-enough sleep, and dreams of the sea. Not the violent, hostile sea he dreamed of when things fell apart with Poseidon, or the drowning he woke up choking from after it was over, but the sea the way he used to love it. Living and churning and fresh and full of hope. The sun rising over calm waves, way out over the horizon. The smell of salt and untouched air. 

With all the storms, and all the business with Poseidon, Zolf had more or less forgotten why he’d wanted to be a sailor in the first place, so long ago. He wakes up calm and remembers, fingers gently curled around the ring in his beard.

Wilde’s already left him breakfast. He has more of an appetite than he did yesterday, anxiety and apprehension twisting his stomach in knots, and he tears into it gratefully, a bit disappointed he missed seeing Wilde. 

He rides the odd, out-of-place wave of stillness. Sits with his eyes closed and tries to meditate, even if he feels a bit silly doing it in a magic-proof cell. Pretends his breathing is waves crashing on a beach, and settles into it. 

He doesn’t think of anything, and then he thinks of Feryn, and then Hamid, and Sasha. Imagines them all together on the theoretical beach he’d really like to be on. Wonders distantly if Feryn and Sasha would get along, decides they would, and almost smiles imagining the conversation. He hopes they get to meet each other, wherever they are, even if it’s just in passing. 

There’s a soft clanging, and Zolf’s eyes fly open, startled, the warm, idle, soft daydream fading into the cold, dim light of the cell. Wilde’s knuckles are against the bars, eyebrow raised.

“Are you alright?” he asks, and Zolf feels himself flush, absurdly, like he’s ashamed of being caught doing...absolutely nothing outward at all.

“Actually, I am,” Zolf says, and Wilde nearly smiles. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says, softly, fondly. He sighs through his nose and runs a hand back through his hair. “I was thinking about what you said yesterday. That I ‘saved’ you.” His hand drifts up to provide airquotes. “I still think you saved yourself, but I’m willing to concede that I may have thrown you a rope.”

“Thanks for the follow-up,” Zolf says, slowly, squinting. He’s sure Wilde’s going somewhere with this, but he’s not sure he wants to know where. They’ve been on odd, uncharted ground this week. 

“What you didn’t add, and I think it’s an important omission, is that you also saved me.” Wilde crosses his arms, which Zolf knows means he will expertly deflect any argument Zolf would try to give. Zolf wouldn’t argue. He isn’t the type to disguise begging for praise through fighting it. If he ever needs reassurance, he’ll ask.

“How’s that.”

“You  _ care _ ,” Wilde says, simply. “In an infuriating, stubborn way, yes, but you still care, and that’s frankly more than I can say for most people I’ve had in my life, very much including myself. You don’t let me ignore things I’d like to overlook, and you know how to make things hurt less. I truly have no idea why I ever thought of myself as your handler. You handle me better than I’ve ever handled anything. I don’t know where I’d be if I hadn’t managed to find you.”

Wilde finishes, and Zolf blinks, taking all that in and trying to figure out how to respond. “Well,  _ someone _ needs to look after you,” Zolf says, shrugging. “No one else is stepping up, so.”

“What I’m trying to say, in a typically roundabout and unnecessarily verbose way--old habits die hard--is that I love you.”

“I see,” is the first and only thing Zolf can force out of his mouth at that, stunned into near-silence.

“You...you see,” Wilde repeats, a breathless and humorless laugh escaping him. “Yes. Well. I’d hope you would, after I took the specific care to clearly state my meaning.”

“No, Oscar, I--” Zolf starts, trying to collect himself enough to say something better than  _ I see _ , what a fucking  _ idiot _ he is, but he can’t even figure out what he wants to say, he doesn’t--it doesn’t matter. Wilde’s already shut down. Zolf can tell from his eyes.

“Please strip.” Wilde’s voice is, as expected, curt and detached. 

“Wilde,” Zolf says, a bit pleading, really, because he’d like to actually have this conversation. 

“Zolf, whatever pitying kindness you’re going to offer me, I’d prefer you keep it to yourself. Let me check you.”

“There’s no  _ pity _ , Oscar,” Zolf snaps, frustrated with the entire situation. “I’ve never  _ pitied _ you. You think  _ I’m _ stubborn, look in a fuckin’ mirror. You’re a genius, and a talented one, and you’re  _ strong _ , so there ain’t really anythin’  _ to _ pity.”

“Stop.” Wilde waves a hand. “I’m not interested in--”

“I love you too, you absolutely  _ maddening _ man.”

“No, trust me, I know when men are just saying things to pacify me,  _ believe _ me.”

“Then you should know that’s not what I’m doing!” Zolf throws his hands up in frustration and lets them fall. “I’ve wanted to kiss you the whole time I’ve been stuck in here.”

“Don’t twist the knife.” Wilde’s lips twist in either pain or derision. Maybe both.

“I’m serious. I thought about you every five minutes or less when I was gone. I  _ shouldn’t _ have left you.”

“I’m not a child,” Wilde says, shaking his head.

“Never said you were. People shouldn’t be alone after--after trauma like that. Isn’t right. I know that well and I left you anyway and now I’m stuck in here and I can’t even make you a nice soup,” Zolf says, sighing in frustration and rubbing his face.

A laugh bursts out of Wilde at that, choked but genuine. “You...you regret being quarantined because you want to make me soup?”

“Soup fixes just about anything.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“You just haven’t had good enough soup, then,” Zolf says, shrugging. “There’s a few other things I’d like to do too, but the soup’s a good starting point.”

“You might be the strangest person I’ve ever met, in your way,” Wilde says, a hint of disbelief in his tone.

“You’re  _ definitely _ the strangest person I’ve ever met.”

“But you love me?” Wilde asks, tentatively, a bit hopefully. There’s a touch of something young and vulnerable in his eyes that Zolf’s never seen before.

“I do.” Zolf punctuates with a nod, hoping that makes up for his initial response. “I really do.”

“Right. Well. Good.” Wilde clears his throat and brushes his hair back. “Well, take your clothes off, then.”

“You get right to business,” Zolf says.

“No time wasted.” Wilde smiles briefly at the ground. “Peak efficiency.”

“The Harlequins’ finest.”

“Zolf, I am  _ desperate _ to see your bare chest,” Wilde deadpans. “I would like to know if I’ve just shared a heartfelt confession with an infected husk of a person or not.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Wilde.” Zolf gives him a small salute and sets to stripping. 


	7. Day Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and sticking with me! I've enjoyed writing this so much <3
> 
> CW: discussions of sexuality

Wilde lets him out of the cell free and clear on the seventh day, and they just stand there staring at each other for a moment without the bars between them. Wilde looks almost shy, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands all of a sudden, and Zolf doesn’t really know either. He sits down to get his metal legs back on, and  _ fuck _ if that ain’t a relief, and Wilde just watches, hovering awkwardly.

Zolf feels it too, obviously, that nervous energy, the  _ what next _ that comes after everything’s out in the open and there aren’t any barriers left. He also feels filthy and desperate for warm, substantial food, and like he wants to lie down in an actually decent bed for a very long time, so if Wilde isn’t feeling up to making any sudden movements on whatever’s going on between them, Zolf isn’t gonna push it.

He gets back up, glad to be on responsive legs. “I’m gonna take a bath,” he says, and Wilde blinks, brow furrowing, like Zolf just woke him up from a dream.

“Oh,” Wilde says. “Right. Of course.”

“You can join me,” Zolf says--mumbles--shrugging one shoulder. “Y’know. If you’d like.”

“I  _ would _ , actually,” Wilde says, a grin that he’s obviously not quite in control of spreading across and contorting his face. “Lead the way.”

He follows Zolf out to the baths, politely averts his gaze as Zolf ferociously strips, ready to be out of those clothes for a good while, and waits for Zolf to get in and sink comfortably into and then all the way under the water before starting to unbutton his shirt, slowly and with a great deal of care. Wilde has regard for his things in a way Zolf never quite learned--he flashes back to chucking his trident, ostensibly his most important possession, straight into the ocean. Objects don’t matter much to him. Wilde isn’t overly materialistic, not anymore, at least, just careful with nice things. Nothin’ wrong with that.

In the warm water, relief sinking into his skin from getting through the tense, jittery stress of the last week, Zolf reaches for his god. He feels it reach back, a searing-hot and calming embrace, as Wilde slides into the water. 

He holds his hair up with a hand, careful not to get it wet, hugging his knees to his chest and regarding Zolf. Zolf stares back, suddenly very aware of the short distance between them. He doesn’t quite know how to close it the way he would really like to, so instead he splashes Wilde, aiming for the hair. He gets the ends of it wet, and Wilde sputters indignantly in protest.

“Are you a  _ child _ ?” Wilde snaps, clearly joking if the way his eyes dance is anything to go on. “My hair is my  _ pride _ , Zolf Smith, and I  _ know _ you can’t relate to that--” He gestures vaguely at Zolf’s hair. “--but some of us have standards.”

“What are you gonna do about it?” Zolf asks, splashing Wilde more violently. The wave catches him full in the face this time, and he spits water back out.

“ _ You _ ,” Wilde growls, lunging the distance between them, knees on the floor of the bath between Zolf’s legs.

“What about me?” Zolf asks, smiling lopsidedly at him, water still dripping down his face. 

“Just you,” Wilde says, smiling back, curling a hand around the back of Zolf’s neck, and kissing him. It’s wet, and soaked strands of Wilde’s hair stick to Zolf’s face, but it’s warm and floods Zolf with a jittery, shaky feeling he doesn’t think he’s felt in a long time. It’s the kind of feeling people write about.

He kisses back, pushing in, forcing Wilde back slightly, and Wilde laughs breathlessly against his lips at the force, closing his teeth around Zolf’s bottom lip and pulling, sliding his hand off of Zolf’s neck and bracing it on his chest, fingers tangling in the hair on his chest.

“You’re beautiful,” Zolf breathes, and Wilde laughs, shaking his head and looking away.

“Not anymore,” he says, the scarred side of his face turned away from Zolf. “That’s alright.”

“Hey,” Zolf says, raising a dripping-wet hand to turn Wilde’s face towards him. “Would I lie to you?”

“I hope not,” Wilde says, earnestly, kissing him again, sliding closer between his legs, the hand that’s on Zolf’s chest trailing down, long fingers reaching out and wrapping around--

Zolf pulls away, pushing Wilde back. “Nope.”

“Oh,” Wilde says, looking genuinely startled, falling back onto his ass, both hands up and out of the water like Zolf caught him stealing. “My apologies, I--”

“It’s alright, just, y’know,  _ ask _ before touchin’, yeah?” Zolf says, hugging himself with an arm. “I don’t really go in for, uh. For sex. Sometimes, but not--not much, and I don’t really like--” Zolf sighs, closes his eyes, and tries to just be as blunt and straightforward as possible. “I’ll get you off as much as you like, but I ain’t that interested in you doing the same for me. Can’t help it. Just doesn’t work for me.”

“Understood loud and clear,” Wilde says, nodding once. “Again, I’m sorry.”

“No need,” Zolf says, waving a hand. “Sorry I killed the moment.”

“Is the moment dead?” Wilde asks, brow furrowing. “I think I can still feel a pulse.”

“Can you?”

“You’re the cleric, you tell me.” Wilde beams, and Zolf rolls his eyes. 

“I might be able to heal it,” he says, leaning back in to kiss Wilde, but misjudging his weight and density, and accidentally pushing Wilde back into the water. Wilde tilts his head back, freeing his lips from Zolf, and laughs.

“Maybe not,” he says, sinking back into the water, hair streaming out around him. 

“Oh well. We’ll get another moment, I’m pretty sure,” Zolf says, sighing, lying back in the water next to Wilde and taking his hand. 

“At least one.” 

“Hopefully a lot more, though that seems like a lot to commit to, considerin’,” Zolf says, sighing at the ceiling. He closes his eyes and sinks back into the feeling of being warm and clean and alive and safe and loved. His god is in the water around him and the pulse in Wilde’s delicate fingers and the lingering gratitude that he made it through another quarantine. 

“It’s just one disaster after another, isn’t it,” Wilde says, sighing. 

“That’s life,” Zolf says, still not opening his eyes. “Just an endless fuckin’ storm on the sea. Sometimes it hits lulls, sometimes you’re thrilled to be out in it and alive and surviving, and sometimes you’re just beggin’ whatever god you trust to get you out of it in one piece. Nothing’s permanent. The skies clear up in time.”

“Maybe you should be the writer,” Wilde says, flatly, snorting. 

“You make fun of my heartfelt speech for being a cliche and I dunk you,” Zolf says. “Just ‘cause I can’t drown you in a bucket anymore doesn’t mean I can’t drown you normal-like.”

“No, it’s  _ very _ inspiring. You’re a natural-born leader, Zolf.”

“You’re such a dick,” Zolf mutters, and Wilde laughs. The sound reverberates through Zolf’s chest, and he squeezes Wilde’s hand. “I love you.”

Wilde inhales sharply like he’s been struck and squeezes back. “It’s still strange to hear you say that. I love you too.”

“It’s okay if you want to keep fuckin’ Carter,” Zolf says, and Wilde laughs so sharply and violently at that it startles Zolf into opening his eyes.

“If I had ever been, uh, ‘fucking Carter’, then I’d take that  _ generous _ permission to heart,” he says. “However I never have, never intend on doing so, and don’t take notes on my sex life.”

“You could just say ‘no’,” Zolf mutters, and Wilde puts a wet hand over his face for no apparent purpose aside from annoying him.

“Oh, Zolf, I really couldn’t. Where’s the fun in concision when the English language is so very expansive?” 

“Right, I’m clean enough, I need to get out of here and make you food so I can shut you up for a few minutes,” Zolf says, pushing himself out of the water.

“You told me you wanted me to stay like this,” Wilde says, sitting up and smirking.

“Yeah, well, sometimes people say stupid things when they’re in love,” Zolf says, shaking his head. “Don’t suppose I can get this djinn back in its bottle?”

“Absol _ utely _ not.”

Zolf sets his face grimly and shakes his head, like he’s not delighted, like he doesn’t want to spend an eternity here in hope with Wilde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3<3<3<3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All feedback is appreciated <3  
> Find me on tumblr @witnesstotheend


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